


The Near Occasion of Sin

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-24
Updated: 2007-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been dealing with Dean his whole life, has known how to change <em>no</em> into <em>maybe</em> into <em>yes</em> since before he could talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Near Occasion of Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing.

No, it's wrong, Dean says. No, we can't, and no, I won't, and finally just, no, Sam. No.

And Sam is living with it, though it's killing him, killing them both, eating them away from the inside, taking everything that makes them strong, keeps them going, and hollowing it out, and making them a weak, pale shadow of what they could be if Dean would just say yes.

But Dean says no. He flinches from Sam's touch now, and checks himself when he reaches out to offer comfort, uses words--never his strong suit--instead. And Sam misses him, misses the warm strength of his hands, the scent of his skin under Ivory soap, his constant presence like a solid wall at Sam's back, I'm here, Sammy, and I've got you, Sammy, and Nothing's ever gonna hurt you while I'm around, Sammy, but he refuses to see how his refusal is hurting Sam now. Seems to think he's being noble, protecting Sam, like Sam doesn't know what he's doing, what he wants.

And it's not like Dean doesn't _want it _ as much as Sam does. He's caught Dean watching him, seen the heat and hunger in his eyes, but for all his fucking around, Dean's got lines he won't cross, and Sam's finally run into one.

But Sam's been dealing with Dean his whole life, has known how to change _no_ into _maybe_ into _yes_ since before he could talk--it's just another formula he learned, like making holy water or performing an exorcism: the proper gestures and words in the proper order produce a particular, repeatable result.

The first time he asked, he was a little drunk and a lot horny and filled with the righteous triumph of killing redcaps, adrenaline running hot and sweet in his blood, and Dean was so close, smelling of leather and beer and sweat, and Sam had just leaned in and kissed him, hard, fast and sloppy. And it's not like Dean didn't kiss him back after the first startled gasp, didn't slide his tongue along Sam's and tighten his fingers in Sam's shirt for a few endless seconds before whatever passes for a brain in that head of his kicked in and made him pull away, shaking his head.

No, he said, it's not safe, and yeah, okay, they were in a bar somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, so maybe kissing in public wasn't the best idea, but when they got back to the motel, he tried again, and that time Dean ducked out of the way, eyes wild and voice angry in the way it only gets when he's trying not to panic. Sam, what the fuck? I said no. Then, he'd slammed into the bathroom and hadn't come out until Sam was in bed.

Sam knows better than to talk about it directly, is still trying to figure out which oblique route will work best--Dean's usually good at anticipating him, but he still has a few tricks up his sleeve--when Dean pulls a trick of his own, disappears with some girl while Sam is checking obituaries online, and comes back half an hour later with a hickey on his neck and a cocky grin on his face.

"That's what you need, Sammy. Get yourself some trim; you'll be a new man. This girl, she was _hot_, had a mouth like a Hoover. Let me come down her throat and swallowed it all."

Sam's hand tightens into a fist--he's angry, jealous, fucking _turned on_, imagining himself in the girl's place, Dean's cock in his mouth, his hands on Dean's hips. He opens his mouth to tell Dean to shut the fuck up, to stop teasing him, but then the knowledge jolts him like a lightning strike, and instead, he just leans back against the booth, trying for casual, and says, "Yeah?"

Dean looks startled for a second, but then he grins again. "Yeah. And she did this thing with her tongue--I swear, I had to check to make sure she was human, because I've been with a lot of women, Sammy, and I didn't know a tongue could _do_ that."

Later, in the shower, Sam jacks his cock and thinks of Dean's mouth wrapped around it, Dean's tongue doing unnatural and amazing things, and he comes harder than he has in a long, long time.

Another week, another bar, another girl, and as they drive away, Dean can't stop talking about this one, the way her ass curved and her breasts bounced, the slick, tight grip of her pussy around his dick, the way she moaned when she came, and how he'd made her come again with his mouth and his fingers before she'd completely finished the first time.

It's not enough, but it's what Dean's willing to give, so Sam takes it, opens himself up to it, closes his eyes and lets Dean's words paint pictures for him, and where once he'd have begged Dean to stop, to shut up--I _really_ didn't need to know that, Dean\--now he prompts him to keep going.

After a couple of weeks of listening to Dean's filthy mouth, of replaying every last detail in his head when he jerks off, Sam has another idea.

"You know," he says one day, as Dean scopes for girls, "instead of telling me all about it, you could just let me watch."

Dean freezes, the hand bringing his beer to his mouth stopping for just a second, and if Sam didn't know Dean as well as he does, he probably would have missed it. But then Dean takes a drink like nothing happened, and says, "Okay. But you have to pick a girl," he waves a hand at the crowded bar, "and convince her to go along with that."

Sam nearly laughs at how easy it is. He knows Dean's type as well as Dean does (Dean's not picky, and Sam doesn't mean it in the snobby sense, either--Dean genuinely _likes_ women, and he likes 'em in many shapes and sizes--nice tits and a curvy ass probably top his list, but they're not hard-and-fast requirements), and it's not like Sam doesn't notice girls are checking him out, too.

The girl he chooses has Scully-red hair--some things imprint early--and a wide pink mouth that smiles mischievously when Sam flirts with her. She laughs when he finally tells her he'd like to watch her fuck Dean. Dean looks startled through the whole conversation, as if a wendigo's gotten the drop on him, but it doesn't stop him from fucking her.

They take her back to the motel room, which is not something they usually do, and Sam sits in the chair by the desk and stretches his legs out, trying not to make this any weirder than it already is, having a stranger in their space, some girl in his rightful spot on the bed with Dean.

Dean takes his time, undresses her slowly, carefully, touching and kissing and licking her until she's squirming and moaning on the bed. Sam can't take his eyes off him. It's not like he's never seen Dean naked before--given the way they grew up, the way they live now, privacy is hard to come by, and Dean's never been shy--but he's never seen him like _this_, the sleek, thick length of his cock disappearing into the girl's ripe, pink cunt, the perfect curve of his ass flexing as he thrusts, the way his muscles ripple under supple, freckled skin Sam wants to learn by touch and taste.

He presses his palm against his dick, desperate to unzip his jeans and stroke it until he feels as good as Dean looks, but he doesn't. He almost breaks when Dean comes with a long, low growl and a bitten off, "Fuck," before collapsing on top of the girl, whose name Sam knows he knows--he did ask--but the sight of Dean lying there, satisfied and already half-asleep, chases everything else from his mind.

The girl looks over at him, framed by the curve of Dean's shoulder, and says, "You don't look like you're enjoying yourself." She slides off the bed, walks towards him, hips and breasts swaying enticingly. "I could help you with that."

"No, thanks," he says, as polite as he can manage when he wants her gone, so he can pretend he's the reason Dean's sprawled out bonelessly on the bed, lazy, fucked-out grin on his face. "It's not really you I'm interested in."

The girl glances from him to Dean, and Dean shrugs one shoulder--half, what can I say, have you _seen_ me?, and half, if you want to ditch her, Sammy, it's all right with me. Sam's pretty sure the girl doesn't get any of it, that she has no idea how it happens that she's suddenly dressed and on the other side of the door, but they have ways of making people feel unwelcome, and though Sam usually hates doing it, he does it now, because he needs to get off and he won't do it while she's there.

That changes, of course. The third time he convinces a girl in a bar to let Dean fuck her while he watches, Dean bends her over the bed facing the chair Sam's sitting in, and fucks her from behind. He catches and holds Sam's gaze--in the yellow lamp light, his eyes are more black than green, and Sam feels himself falling, feels like he can't breathe, like he's choking on the need and heat rising inside him. He unzips his jeans, wraps his hand around his dick and starts stroking in time with the rhythm of Dean's thrusts, the swing of Dean's amulet and his low, hoarse grunts like a metronome.

Dean closes his eyes, bites his lip when he comes, even, white teeth sinking into swollen red flesh, hips jerking out of time now. Sam moans, gives his dick one last, rough stroke, and then he's coming as well, in thick, white ribbons over his hand and belly.

When he opens his eyes, Dean is staring at him again, lip still caught between his teeth, and so much honest _need_ on his face that Sam stops breathing. It's so close to what he wants, and yet still so far away, and he doesn't know how to convince Dean that this isn't wrong, not if they both want it, and that with everything they've had to give up in their lives, this is the one thing they can have, that no one can ever take from them.

Dean is still reluctant, still clinging by the skin of his teeth to the suburban white-bread morality he usually disdains, and Sam's not sure how much more of this either of them can take. It's easy enough to find girls who are interested, but the tension between them doesn't break; instead, it twists higher and tighter until they're snapping at each other over stupid shit they've always done, like leaving damp towels on the beds (Dean) or buying cinnamon-flavored toothpaste on their supply run (Sam).

The days stretch on, still no sign of Ava, no hint of other people marked by the demon, and Sam's patience--never his strongest virtue--is wearing thin.

When Sam comes out of the bathroom, half-dressed and rubbing a towel over his wet hair, Dean is pacing the room restlessly, already dressed to go out.

"Jesus, Sam, how long does it take you to shower? I was getting ready to send in a search and rescue team," he says.

"You could have come in and joined me," Sam answers, sick of dancing around the subject. He tosses the towel back into the bathroom. "I wouldn't have minded."

Dean's eyes go wide and he swallows hard--Sam is mesmerized for a moment by the bob of his Adam's apple--and then he turns and grabs the doorknob. "I need a drink."

Sam crosses the room in two quick steps, slams the door shut with the flat of his hand as Dean tries to open it. "What you _need_ is to stop acting like a moron and admit that you want the same thing I do," he says, growling low in Dean's ear. He can see the flush creep up Dean's neck, darkening his skin and obscuring the freckles scattered over it.

"Sam--" Dean's voice is low, desperate, _pleading_ in a way Sam is pretty sure he understands, both _yes_ and _no_, need and obligation lashed together so tightly there's no untangling them now, just a question of which will win out at any given moment.

Sam can't go back to the way it's been, can't keep doing what they've been doing, and he thinks he knows just how to tip that balance in his favor.

He shoves Dean back against the door, using his superior height and reach, leans in so close he can feel Dean's ragged breathing whisper across his skin.

"I know you want this as much as I do," he says, inhaling the scent of soap and sweat and just a hint of leather, everything that says, Dean to him, Dean and home and safe in a way nothing else has ever been.

He lets his lips skim along the warm skin of Dean's temple, nips at the skin just below his ear, and Dean whimpers, no other word for it; Sam will tease him with that endlessly later, but now it just makes him hard, makes him hungry for all the other sounds he knows Dean makes when he's fucking.

Dean clears his throat, trying to cover, and shoves Sam away. "Dammit, Sam, we can't--"

Sam pushes back, pressing Dean against the door, his leg between Dean's thighs. "We can't, or you don't want to?" He punctuates each word with the brush of his thigh against Dean's crotch.

"Shouldn't," Dean stutters. "Can't."

"Can, too," Sam answers, recalling old arguments about riding a bike, shooting a gun, driving the car. "_Want_ to." He leans in again, captures Dean's lower lip in his teeth like he's been imagining for weeks, licks into his mouth to answer all his pointless objections with the truth: this is who we are and this is what we do.

Dean relaxes, then, surrenders, kisses back with the fierce competitiveness that marks so much of what they do. His hands glide over the bare, damp skin of Sam's belly and chest, and Sam shivers under the touch, pushes into Dean's hands, lets himself be discovered. He shoves Dean's jacket off--it gets caught between Dean's body and the door, but neither of them cares--and growls in impatience at Dean's t-shirt, pulls back long enough to yank it up over Dean's head and toss it behind him. Dean's skin is smooth and warm under his fingers; he can read the fine webbing of scars scattered here and there like a book he's known his whole life.

One of Dean's hands slides up to cup the nape of Sam's neck, tangles in his wet hair to hold him close as they trade kisses and nips, gentler than Sam expected, and warmer, and Sam lets himself be held, his own hands fumbling over the fly of Dean's jeans.

"Careful, Sammy," Dean mutters into his neck, before nipping him gently, "don't wanna damage the family jewels." And then he stops talking, because Sam's hand is wrapped around Dean's dick and stroking firmly, the skin warm and velvety against his palm. Dean thrusts into his grip, helpless and trying not to show it.

"Whatever," Sam answers smugly. "Always knew there had to be a way to shut you up." The last word comes out as a yelp because Dean's got a hand down Sam's jeans now, and is jacking him roughly in return.

It's a little clumsy, and Sam's not used to stroking from this angle, but the feel of Dean's cock in his hand, Dean's tongue in his mouth, is more than enough to make up for any awkwardness. They've always worked well together, and Sam's sure they'll get this right, too. He plans on practicing as often as Dean lets him.

They thrust and surge against each other, making the door rattle on its hinges with the force of their need, and for once, Sam doesn't care if the people in the next room hear, because it's him and it's Dean, and the rest of the world can go fuck itself.

Dean's found his voice again, because he's muttering in Sam's ear, fuck, yeah, and just like that, and just when Sam's begun to worry that Dean is pretending he's with someone else, Dean whispers, God, _Sam_ and comes with a long, low moan, spurting white and warm over Sam's hand, between their bodies.

Sam watches his face go slack with pleasure, leans in to kiss him again, inhale the ragged exhale of his breath. The knowledge that he's done this, without anyone else between them, is enough to make him desperate, and he wraps his come-sticky hand around Dean's, which has gone still on his cock, twines their fingers together, and finishes himself off, pleasure pulsing through him and out like the rays of the sun.

He slumps against Dean, leans his forehead on Dean's shoulder, licks at the cinnamon colored freckles on his sweat-damp skin, tasting salt and Dean, the strongest protection against evil Sam's ever known.

"Sam." Dean's expression is suddenly guarded, unreadable, and Sam knows he's beating himself up for failing to resist, for crossing some uncrossable line, and while Sam doesn't feel guilty about what they've done (what they're going to do again, if he has anything to say about it), he does feel guilty about adding to the weight Dean's carrying, would shoulder some of it if Dean would let him.

"If you apologize or say we can't do it again or some other stupid, guilty shit, I'll kick your ass," Sam threatens, though it's kind of ridiculous at the moment because he feels like his whole body's made of water, and if Dean wasn't holding him up, he's pretty sure he'd be on the floor. But he doesn't think he can take it if Dean pulls away again, denies him this now that he's had a taste, and he wants to make sure Dean knows he really wants it.

"As if." Dean laughs, tiny puffs of moist air against Sam's skin. "I was just gonna suggest we get on the bed so I can fuck you, but if you want me to kick your ass instead, I'm sure that can be arranged."

Sam's dick twitches in interest at Dean's suggestion, and he has to swallow hard before he can speak. "Jerk." He stumbles back and sprawls onto the bed, wriggling until he can kick his jeans completely off, and then Dean, stripped naked as well, drops down beside him.

"Bitch," Dean says, and kisses him. And Sam knows he's forgiven.

end

~*~


End file.
